The room teems with people. Two young girls come in bearing long skirts and floral stitched tunics with ruffles, frilled collars, and scalloped hemlines, the fabrics ranging from buttery yellow to lime green. The mantillas are lacy with fringed hems, and there are a couple of fajas, wide belts, in a deep red. Llacsan clothing. No one in the room openly acknowledges me, and those I catch looking in my direction twist their lips in disgust, as if they’ve found a cucaracha in their soup.
After they leave, the guard locks up and I’m alone except for a girl who stands, staring at me, her dark eyes unreadable, from the corner of the room. She might be my age, although a full head shorter than me. Her pollera, a pleated skirt that stops at her ankles, rustles in the night breeze sweeping the room. A cream-hued manta made of llama wool is wrapped around her shoulders.
“¿Sí?” I ask.
“Your new clothes are a gift from His Majesty,” she says stiffly. “I’m to take your old things with me.”
I gesture toward my bag. “I think you already did.”
“Not the ones you’re wearing.”
Is she expecting me to strip in front of her? Do these people not know the meaning of the word modesty? “What if I refuse? I happen to prefer what I’m wearing.”
Her face shutters. “To refuse a gift would be an insult. You must accept.”
“Fine, then I’ll give them to you after my bath.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not waiting until you’re done washing, Condesa.”
I was in a completely new world. How did we manage to live side by side with the Llacsans for all these years? Loud and shameless, with gaudy tastes in paint and clothing.
We haven’t lived side by side.
Before the revolt, Illustrians lived in the city; Llacsans stayed up by the mountain. Then they came down carrying spears and torches, with Atoc at the lead, wielding the power of the Estrella.
My boots come off first. I discard my bloodied skirt and shirt and throw everything at her. She catches the bundle calmly and knocks on the door twice. Juan Carlos opens it, and I quickly snatch the blanket off the bed to cover myself. I make a noise at the back of my throat.
The girl glances over her shoulder.
“I’m hungry.”
She shrugs dismissively and heads out. Juan Carlos locks the door after her, and the way he looks at me is almost apologetic, but that can’t be right. They’re both leaving me in here without food. I furiously throw the blanket back on the bed to keep myself from breaking down the door. My eyes sting with pent-up fury. The room doesn’t feel big enough for my frustration.
My skin crawling with humiliation, I head to the bathtub, but as soon as I dip my foot in the water, I let out a loud screech. It’s frigid cold.
“Carajo.” I’m dusty from the ride, sore from the fight in the courtyard, and sticky with sweat. I want to be clean. I still remember what it is to be dirty, unable to bathe as I dragged my battered loom around on the streets of La Ciudad. That was how Ana found me—left behind after the revolt. Alone without family, without friends. She took one look at me, an eight-year-old child with smudged cheeks, half starved, but who resembled her charge, Catalina, the rightful heir to the Inkasisa throne. Ana brought me to the fortress, where my life as a copy of someone else began.
I sink into the tub, letting the icy water engulf me. I don’t care to remember what followed—the goose bumps and chattering teeth, the water swirling, mixing with Sofía’s blood—but it’s not until I’m all the way in, hair dunked and everything, that I realize the extent of my problem.
The Llacsans didn’t bother to bring soap. I got in for nothing. Climbing out, I look around for something to wrap myself up in, only they didn’t bring me anything to dry off with either.
With my hair dripping icy rivers down my back, I grab the bed blanket and manage to dry off. I don’t have anything to sleep in, so I settle for the Llacsan clothing and layer everything until I’m as round as a stuffed pastry.
Cool air breezes in, rustling the curtains. I shut the balcony doors, but the chill sneaks in. Because of the high altitude, nights are always cool, no matter how hot it gets during the day. Scowling, I climb into bed and pull the sheet up to my chin. My stomach rumbles. The last thing I ate was a bland bowl of quinoa eight hours earlier. I burrow deeper in the bed, away from a world where I don’t belong.
Sofía’s face drifts into my mind—her last gasp of life, the hot blood spurting from her chest. I can’t keep the sob from escaping, so I give in, releasing my tears and smothering the sound with the pillow.
My first night in enemy territory.
CAPÍTULO
The glow of a torch lurches me awake. I sit up, reaching for the dagger I always keep under my pillow—but come up empty. Where is my blade? I blink in the flickering dark, scrambling away from the heat of the fire. I don’t recognize the room I’m in. Gone are Catalina’s piles of books and clothes. None of my tapestries adorn the stone walls.
And I remember.
I turn toward the source of the light and meet the figure of a tall boy barely illuminated by the fire. Atoc’s smelly cousin. I groan.
“Are you wearing—” Rumi squints at me, moving the torch closer to me. “Are you deranged? You’re not supposed to wear everything at once.”
“I’m cold,” I snap, wiping the sleep from my eyes. “What time is it?”
“Time for you to head downstairs,” Rumi says. “Congratulations. You get to be in a parade.”
I sit up, fumbling beneath my layers of garments. “What do you mean, a parade?”
Rumi strides to the balcony and throws the doors open. Dawning sunlight floods the room. The sounds of whinnying horses and lively chatter filter inside as I squint at him.
“Atoc decided to announce the engagement with fanfare. Most of the castillo has been awake all night preparing a lavish procession to herald the news throughout La Ciudad. Your dress is arriving any minute.” He pauses, a slight smirk framing his mouth. “It’s very colorful. Lots of ruffles.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and focus on breathing. His smile is unsettling because I know it means something else. An insult. Judgment.
“Get out of bed.”
“Un minuto.”
“You don’t have a minute,” he says coldly. “We need to go. Ahora.”
My hands itch for something to throw at his head. Instead I curl them as I look for my boots. Everything from the day before comes back to me in a rush: the ride to the castillo, Sofía, meeting Atoc, that frigid bath.
I start taking off the extra clothes but pause when I register his eyes widening. I turn away, surprised at the warmth spreading to my cheeks. I’ve never had a boy in my room before. Catalina had her flirtations among the aristócratas, but nothing ever came from those coy exchanges. I’d had no flirtations, coy or otherwise. It seemed cruel, considering my job. Why reach for a future that couldn’t be counted on? Why give in to a longing that’ll only cause pain? No one would really be flirting with me, but the condesa they thought I was. I am a decoy first. I trained, pretended to be Catalina, and tried to make Ana proud. That has been and will be my life until I can finally take my mask off and be me—Ximena.
“How could you possibly have fallen asleep in all that?” Rumi mutters. He’s leaning against the wall, holding on to the flickering torch. Whatever shadows remain in the brightening room dance across his face. His clothing is a watered-down version of Atoc’s from the day before, a well-made tunic of quality cotton, dark pants, and leather sandals. The faint smell of wet dirt and burnt ragweed attacks my senses. Does he ever wash his clothes?
Rumi lifts the corner of his mouth, as if my discomfort amuses him. I ignore him, and quickly step out of a skirt and pull the extra two tunics off.
The same girl who took the rest of my clothes the night before enters—without knocking—and holds up a dress that’s yards long and outfitted in every color of the rainbow. It’s clear the previous owner was taller than me since pollera s
kirts are supposed to stop at the ankles. Delicate white lace lines the hem, and I spot several ruffles decorating the short sleeves. All in all, the entire ensemble reminds me of the jam-filled pastries my mother used to buy in La Ciudad when I was a child. Puffed up and frilly. Catalina would have loved it.
“Do you need help dressing?” the girl asks stiffly.
“No,” I say as Rumi says, “Yes.”
I glare at him. He merely smiles again and leaves, calling over his shoulder, “Juan Carlos will take you outside. You have ten minutes.”
That bastard. He wanted to wake me, wanted to see my expression while he gave me the news about the parade. I’m still fuming as the girl helps me dress, tucking me inside the gown, tying bows, and laying all the ruffles where they ought to be. She pinches my cheeks, adds rouge to my lips, and braids my hair. She hands me leather sandals, and I’m surprised to see they’re a perfect fit. Her doing, most likely, given her satisfied smile.
Apparently pleased with my appearance, she leaves and Juan Carlos steps inside. “Ready, Condesa?”
“In a minute.” I start to make the bed. Some habits are hard to break. Coming back to a clean room always makes me calmer. In control and organized.
The guard stands off to the side, leaning against the wall. He watches me silently fold the sheets, tucking each corner until they sit crisp and flat. I pull the blanket off the floor, finally dry, and smooth it over the bed. The top still needs to be folded down.
“I didn’t expect you to handle chores meant for maids,” Juan Carlos says.
“I think it’s best if you keep your expectations to yourself from now on.”
“Whatever you want.”
The next minute we’re out the door, the guard at my side. I can feel his gaze on me. He keeps pace, and despite Rumi’s command to hurry, this guard doesn’t rush me. I peek up at him. He’s still watching me. I’m amazed how he’s deftly avoiding trampling on a wandering chicken.
“Stop staring at me,” I say through gritted teeth.
He sounds amused. “Sleep well?”
“Fine.”
“Bed comfortable enough for you?”
He almost sounds like he’s teasing me. “So, you’re a friendly guard.”
“Yes,” he says dramatically. “One of those.”
“Ugh.”
That makes him laugh. His smiles come easy and free, unlike Rumi’s. Juan Carlos shoots me a wink, coaxing me to engage with him. To grin or laugh. I force my expression to retain a careful blankness that reveals nothing, especially to a guard who might use whatever he can find against me. After all, I am a decoy.
Atoc leads a procession on horseback into the city. He’s dressed and adorned in an elaborate robe with detailed stitching of various flowers found in the wild, and a headdress that wraps around his gold crown; on his wrists are gold bracelets. No Estrella. Horn blowers alert La Ciudad of his approach.
I follow yards behind his retinue, Juan Carlos next to me. Craning my neck, I try to spot Illustrian spies in the growing crowd outside the city gates.
“See anyone you know?” he asks.
“If I did, you’d be the last person I’d tell.”
Neither my tone nor my words seem to bother him. He’s all smiles, waving at the people as if he were the main event of this spectacle of a parade. And the people eat him up as if he were dipped in dulce de leche. After a few minutes of playing the crowd, he shifts in his saddle and tries to engage me in conversation. Again.
“So, tell me about yourself.”
My lips thin. His affability is clearly a tactic to get me to trust him—which will never happen.
“Why?”
“Just making conversation,” he says. “Next to Rumi, I’m the main person you’ll be spending time with leading up to Carnaval.”
“Lucky me.”
He merely laughs and resumes waving at the crowd. “You should try smiling; it’s fun.”
Commotion bursts from a group of people ahead that keeps me from responding. How can he suggest I smile? I’m a prisoner. The commotion grows louder and Juan Carlos beckons to the guard riding behind him. “Possible threat. Watch the condesa.”
He rides straight for the growing mob. I can’t tell if it’s a fight brewing or if the people are making such a racket because Atoc is within a few feet of them. I lose sight of Juan Carlos in seconds, and the replacement guard urges me along until we’ve passed the noisy group.
Juan Carlos doesn’t return and the procession snakes into La Ciudad using the many winding streets that bleed into the heart of the city. A crowd of Llacsans waits for us in the Plaza del Sol. There are vendors selling sugared choclo and roasted nuts glazed in cinnamon and cayenne spices. A few are squeezing fresh jugo de mandarina into clay cups, passing them around for tres notas each.
The constant hum of chatter, the sound of animals and people and the wheels of their carts sloshing through puddles, remind me of life before the revolt. Merchants calling out prices for their wares, trying to coax someone into buying something they don’t need, the tolling of the temple bells, the grunts coming from masons building towers and tall buildings that reach the heavens, set against the hazy lavender mountain.
I love the song of the city. After moving to the Illustrian fortress, I found that the sudden silence filled me with regret. It took me years to get used to it, but it still always unnerved me.
I peer at the crowds, reveling in the bustle and noise. All the buildings are decorated with streamers and potted flowers, and in the middle of the plaza stands a platform where a group of prisoners wait for their fates. My gaze narrows at the trio.
Ana stands bound and gagged on that platform.
I gasp and pull on the reins. Acid rises in my gut, sour and faintly tasting like tomatoes. “What is this?”
The guard yanks the reins from my hands. “Move.”
I keep blinking, hoping what I’m seeing isn’t real. But there’s no mistaking Ana—head held high, graying hair fluttering in the morning breeze. On either side of her are bound Illustrians, lined up and waiting to be executed.
“Ana!” I scream. “Atoc! You promised. You said—”
Atoc whirls around in his seat, his brows slamming together into a sharp line. The guard riding next to me hauls me off the horse and drags me across his lap, his dirty hand slapping against my mouth to keep me quiet. I rage against his hold as his horse continues forward, pushing through the crowd.
I turn my head and catch sight of Sajra, his feet spread out, his fingertips lightly touching, giving an air of profound patience as the procession curls around the platform. The guard’s hand presses harder against my mouth, but I bite a stubby finger and he yelps as I slide off his lap, falling to my knees on the hard rock. I barely feel the impact.
I duck around the horse and then scramble forward, dragging my ridiculous dress across the dirty cobblestones and pushing onlookers out of my way to get to Ana.
Her shoulders stiffen and her gaze widens as she jerks her chin upward in warning. She’s seen me. Rough hands grip my shoulders and waist, reeling me back until I’m surrounded by a tight circle of Atoc’s men. I push and shove, but I might as well be fighting statues.
The chamberlain steps forward to announce the king, and everyone drops to their knees. I break off my attack, panting. Through the gaps of the guards’ shoulders, several people gawk at my display. I don’t give a damn. Atoc gave his word. He promised, he—
Luna. My eyes shut. He’d said the prisoners would leave the castillo. That’s all he said.
I let out a hoarse laugh. He tricked me.
The usurper steps in front of the platform, blocking my view of Ana. “You may rise, Llacsans.”
I scan the crowd with a mixture of hope and dread—half wanting to see a friendly face, and half hoping I don’t. Guards weave through the crowd, spears at the ready. If anyone attempts a rescue, it’ll be a massacre. There are too many of them. Atoc drones on and on, and the words scrape against my skin.
He says something about flattening the last of the rebels, triumphing over his oppressors. Tears prick my eyes, a salty sting I don’t want anyone to see.
The high priest Sajra walks onto the platform. The crowd hushes. I didn’t realize Atoc had finished his ramblings, and now it’s time. I’m not ready. Sajra yanks off Ana’s gag.
“Ana, you are to be an example for all the Illustrians in Inkasisa,” Sajra says. “Let the condesa see what happens to her people should she not obey His Majesty, the faithful servant of our earth goddess and sun god, King Atoc!”
Ana looks in my direction. I can barely meet her gaze because of the guards blocking my view. This is the woman who brought me to the Illustrian keep. Who taught me how to defend myself. Who made sure I had enough water to drink and food to eat. This is Sofía’s mother, who I vowed to save. Without her magic, we’re near defenseless. The bridge will become visible and then only stone walls will be left to protect my people against Atoc’s army.
I shove against the backs of the guards, but they don’t move an inch.
“Condesa!” Ana calls.
I stop pushing. My hands are shaking, and I’m afraid to meet her gaze. I’ve failed her. Somehow we lock eyes. Her expression is soft and brave, resigned to her fate. It’s in her furtive stare that I understand what she’s trying to tell me. A last message—for her kids, Sofía and Manuel.
For me.
La Ciudad is ours. Inkasisa belongs to us. Never forget it. Fight for every stone, for every handful of soil. Do not show weakness, or you will lose it all.
Her words are as clear as if she had whispered them into my ear. These are the mandates I’ve grown up hearing. The truths that have guided my actions and governed my thoughts. We are the rulers of this great city, and every winding path in it, every building and home, every iron gate that stands at the barrier belongs to us. Illustrians.
Woven in Moonlight Page 6